


you burn me

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: Age Difference, Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chair Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Self-Indulgent, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21583888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: After having run from them again, Roy returns once more, and though Tenacity isn't home, Innocence is. They reconnect.
Relationships: Roy/Innocence Smith, Roy/Innocence Smith/Tenacity Williams
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	you burn me

He lingers in front of the flat’s door—stalls. He could have told himself that he doesn’t know why—but in truth, he knows too well. It is a fear—or, rather, many fears, some old, some new, and the feeling of inadequacy, the feeling that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have returned; it is guilt—he hurts them again and again—how much longer will they be able to forgive him, how many times more will they accept him back? When will his conscience finally grip him by the throat and throw him out?

He acknowledges these confusing, warring emotions and feelings and thoughts—and puts them all away for now. Sometimes he spends too much time in his own head, and then looks around, breathes in—and feels humbled and shamed because his worries seem so insignificant. Until they return again.

He pushes the key into the lock and turns it. Carefully, trying not to make too much noise—not because he is afraid, but because… He needs a moment, when he walks in.

It is strange: every home has a distinct smell—except for your own, unless you spend enough time away from it. In the hallway, Roy stops, hit by that scent: spices and chocolate and paint and leather and that _something_, indescribable, that makes it feel like home. Scents are very important for Tenacity, but Roy also notices them.

The darkness of the tiny hallway conceals just how fast his chest is working. Then, when the moment passes and the scent becomes unrecognisable again, he bends down, takes off his boots and puts them close to a small selection of other footwear. Tenacity seems to be away, judging by the absence of his all-terrain heavy boots. Then Roy puts down his bag. He doesn’t travel with much—he used to never _own_ much. It’s just the essentials, and the remaining space is filled with gifts from his brothers-cousins. At least he has managed to not shatter any of the many, _many_ jars of pickles. Zach has taken very much to pickling. ‘Крутить банки’, as he said. Zach has a _huge_ family—but Roy was mildly concerned by the amount of jars he was tasked with ‘getting over’ to his closest. He even wondered whether he should have reminded them that there are only four people in _his_ household, and one of them is a dog who isn’t allowed pickles anyway. But they were too happy to give him something, and Tenacity would probably be delighted by the spicy tomatoes—something to add into his curry.

Roy missed cooking together.

He missed… everything.

He strokes the zipper of his bag, trying to distract himself with its texture and coldness. Then he pads to the bathroom, washes his hands without turning on the light. The soap smells faintly of artificial lemon.

This flat is rather small, the kitchen an abomination barely fitting everything they need, the bathroom narrow, the toilet even more so. The flat has three rooms arranged in a strange Г-pattern: one room shares what seems to be a cardboard wall with the kitchen and another wall with the biggest room, and the third room is accessed through the biggest one. But since they need only one bed and rarely get guests, the third room, its window facing south-west, is given entirely to creative pursuits, chiefly Innocence’s drawing, but it also has a desk with many drawers and baskets and other containers holding Tenacity’s leather-making tools and materials, bits and scraps of this and that Roy sometimes uses. They often spend time in that room, each doing his own thing—Temperance dozing on a rug—content in each other.

The biggest room is the bedroom, and it probably says something about them—Roy doesn’t know what—that the bedroom guards entrances to their ‘study’. There is a nicely-huge bed that was possible to get into the flat only in pieces, plus a mattress they weren’t sure would fit through any doorway (but it did).

The smallest room, the one adjacent to the kitchen, its windows facing north-east, like those of the biggest room, holds on the windowsills Innocence’s non-edible plants, the edibles residing in the kitchen. There is a bed in the smallest room also, a small double one, for if guests come or, more often, for when Roy needs to not be with others.

Roy steps carefully, watching the floor for dog toys. He goes through the bedroom and into the study—and stops in the doorway. Listening to the whisper of a pencil on heavy-grained paper.

He could have said that golden light was suffusing the room, turning Innocence’s curls into a halo—but the universe is too big for such melodrama: it is a cloudy day, and a chilly one at that, and Innocence’s curls don’t need adornment. Roy wants to run his fingers through them, feel their springy softness. On wet days, they get fizzy, bringing Innocence much irritation.

Roy is weak with love.

He still isn’t sure whether this is what people call love of a romantic kind. He’s read so many stories about romantic love, supposedly the finest kind there is, and he’s sung so many love songs; he knows a different love, grew up being taught to recognise it, to feel it: he love that just _is_, for everyone, without conditions, moving the world—without intent and consciousness, it flows, permeating every being, every atom. Roy doesn’t believe in it—he just _feels_ it. Sometimes he feels far away from it, sometimes he forgets about it, sometimes he runs from it—but it is always there. Here. Just flowing, for ever and ever.

But he looks at them—at Innocence and Tenacity—and he’s drowning in it. He wants them to never be in pain—absurdly, even though he knows they will be, simply because they exist. He wants to give to them, and to stay with them even when he’s scared and needs to run; selfishly, he wants them to _be_, and to be himself so that he could always watch over them. He might have failed in his vows to save every being—but he wants to try for _them_. Maybe that fear of disappointing them, of hurting them, is love.

Though he sings, he doesn’t consider himself a singer; though he writes, he doesn’t think he’s a writer—but their presence alone makes him think that he _could_ be. For them, he could be. Maybe this is love.

Innocence lifts his eyes and looks right at him.

The world halts.

Roy feels seen, not with malice or jealousy or disgust, not with anger or disappointment or pity, but as he is, which is a scary thing, but also acknowledged. His existence wanted, his presence welcome.

Then Innocence puts his sketchbook and pencil down on a rickety table, and uncurls from his cosy spot in a giant armchair Tenacity had brought from one job and they managed to repair. Innocence is barefoot—he is rarely cold and rarely bothered by it, unlike Roy. His feet avoid corners of containers and dog toys easily—and then he’s standing before Roy, blue eyes full of joy—and hesitation. Roy, for once, can see it. So he opens his arms, and they embrace.

Innocence is so warm, the curls of his hair tickle Roy’s cheek.

Sometimes, Tenacity calls them: ‘my boys’—even though Roy is a ‘he’ only because it feels as the least terrible thing at the moment, and Innocence isn’t a kid though he looks like one, but Tenacity has years on them and he says that ‘my boys’ with such fondness (usually followed by kisses—an excellent bribe), that maybe they can allow him.

Roy kisses the golden curls. He always has that slight nagging feeling that he can’t do things like this, that he doesn’t have the right to it.

Innocence’s hair smells sweetly of his favourite coconut shampoo, which is, puzzling to Roy, pink in colour. He asked once, watching the _water_ run pink as Innocence was rinsing it off, whether it’s about colour theory, the pink highlighting the golden of Innocence’s curls. And Innocence said, yes, sort of. For Roy, the colour theory is more esoteric than… probably everything else in the world. He can understand the _theoretical_ part, but translating it into practice? Absolutely not. Good thing he has two artists as his loves.

Innocence’s hair also carries a faint woodsy scent of Tenacity’s aftershave. They do sleep together, and make love, and co-exist. They are _good_ together—which Roy’s runaway piece of shit brain takes as a fuel for the trip to all sorts of dark and lonely places—but Roy ignores its attempts on this. They are not _less_ without him—each is his own person—but he brings into their lives something they want, fuck him if he knows what. Even though he hurts them often.

It is very satisfying to watch them being together—in all kinds of situations.

He settles his right arm across Innocence’s back—broad, though not as broad as Roy’s own or Tenacity’s. Innocence likes wrestling with them, quick and agile and nasty, even though they have to travel quite a while for that (there is an option to run into trouble in the streets, but Roy and Tenacity try to steer away from it, for Innocence’s sake). To the house Tenacity grew up in and has transformed that horrid, huge, empty place—a waste of space—into something good, a sports school open to kids regardless of status, where they can spend time, find shelter and advice, and mingle together and learn that while some parents live in mansions, others work three jobs to scrape a living. It is run on donations—though mostly on parts of the bounty from head-hunting jobs and other contracts—and it is ironic, though not surprising, that many more of the poorest parents are ready to donate whatever they can, than those rich ones do.

‘Tenacity is out about a new job,’ Innocence murmurs.

They lead a strange life, probably—Roy can’t say with certainty, because his baseline for what is ‘normal’ and what isn’t, is very different from that of most other people. A head-hunter, an artist-writer—and, well, Roy himself. Something that Tenacity’s parents wouldn’t approve of, certainly—which might be the point. Roy isn’t sure Innocence’s parents would have approved—but Innocence said they would, and Roy takes his word on that.

‘We know what to do in his absence, don’t we?’ he says, running his fingers through Innocence’s hair—soft and springy.

Innocence lifts his head, and mischief glints in his eyes. ‘Oh yes, we do.’

Roy’s breathing stops.

Two mistakes most people make: thinking Tenacity is nothing but a bastard—and thinking that Innocence is naive and ‘pure’, whatever the fuck that means.

‘May I kiss you, Roy?’

He is drowning. But it is good. ‘Yes.’

Innocence isn’t hesitant: his hands on Roy’s waist for support, he leans into the kiss with his whole body, whole being—and it’s heady. Innocence’s mouth is soft, he parts his lips easily, a trace of chocolate in the taste. All this is familiar to them. Roy isn’t sure his hands aren’t shaking; he chases that sweet dark taste, and he’s a little overwhelmed, forgetting what to pay attention to: the way his tongue slides against Innocence’s, or Innocence’s curls tangled over the fingers of his right hand, or whether he should close his eyes or keep them open… Innocence pulls back—his eyelashes are golden also.

‘Too much?’

Roy moves his hand lower, onto Innocence’s nape. ‘A little. But I want…’ He frowns, trying to battle that feeling again—that he can’t have any of this. That he can’t have it _exactly_ because he wants it—he can’t, he mustn’t, because he has to keep himself under control…

But he _wants_.

It ebbs and flows from day to day, week to week. Sometimes he’s content to not take part in sex, content to just watch; sometimes, he commands; sometimes—the most frustrating and devastating—he wants but can’t stand being touched, being seen, being here. Sometimes he thinks, his mind in a dark, echoing place, that it’s good there’s three of them and that, when he’s like this, at least they can…

‘Ro— ow.’ Innocence hisses but finishes the gestures, cupping Roy’s cheek.

Roy smiles apologetically at the spark. Right now, he wants. It makes his legs very heavy; he can hear its lowly thrum, it fills him like a coiling charge. He moves his right hand onto Innocence’s jaw, strokes the bone. They all are so fragile.

‘I want you,’ he admits. Maybe it is so because he missed them, or because he left them in such a haste after a failed attempt to make love, feeling inadequate. Maybe… He closes his eyes briefly and turns his face to kiss Innocence’s palm. ‘I want,’ he repeats. He isn’t pushing himself this time.

Innocence pulls him down and they kiss again, and the charge condenses, burning heavy, burning out the air in his lungs. He likes kissing, even though sometimes it’s too much.

‘We should…’

‘Yeah.’

Innocence takes his left hand without hesitation, and the glove transfers the sensation more intensely than if his hand had been bare. Innocence pulls him to the armchair, though before Roy sits down, Innocence lays a hand on his chest. ‘May I undress you?’

He looks down at himself, and smiles. ‘Yes.’ He’s forgotten that he’s still wearing his leathers, his scarf—the flimsy barriers he puts between himself and the world.

Innocence pulls the ends of the scarf out through the loop, then tugs it away and puts it down over the sketchbook. Then opens the big buttons on the front of Roy’s jacket. The brief pause in contact seems unbearable to both of them, and they meet each other in another kiss. Roy keeps it brief, though, and sinks into the armchair, bringing Innocence onto his lap.

Innocence squirms, heavy, settling more comfortably and pressing onto Roy through the pants in the process. Judging by the smirk hiding in the corner of Innocence’s mouth, he’s doing it on purpose, so Roy pulls him into another kiss until both of them are breathless from it. Roy then presses his lips to Innocence’s cheek, to the edge of his jaw, to the vulnerable pulse on the neck. His stubble will leave a rash, but Innocence is used to it, says he likes it, even when it’s all over his body from Roy and from Tenacity’s beard.

Roy busies himself with buttons on the shirt Innocence is wearing. He has to lean away from Innocence, from his throat where he smells of spices, lemon zest, Tenacity’s aftershave again. Roy certainly can’t concentrate on kissing Innocence _and_ fighting the small buttons. It’s one of Tenacity’s shirts, a chequered red and black one, because Tenacity’s taste in colour scheme is quite predictable. Roy understands the appeal of this shirt: it is so worn that it is gone very soft; patched and re-patched, it carries a touch of Tenacity’s hand. And it is so big that to wrap himself in it is a comfort.

Innocence unbuttons it from the bottom up, and they meet… not halfway, Roy manages only three buttons while Innocence undoes the rest. Innocence seems impatient, squirming again, his knees folded around Roy’s hips. The armchair is big enough but Innocence will probably soon be uncomfortable, and yet he—

A kiss to the corner of his mouth slows down Roy’s thoughts. He realises that with the buttons on the shirt undone, he can slide is hands into it, around Innocence.

There is nothing underneath but skin and muscle and bone, and, cradling Innocence’s nape in his left palm, Roy curls his right over Innocence’s ribs and kisses his collar bone, then below. Then he licks up the mound of Innocence’s breast and takes his nipple into his mouth.

Innocence moans—a soft, breathy sound.

Roy feels Innocence’s hands sliding into his jacket, clawing at his shirt—but there are other things also. The beat of Innocence’s heart, the rush of blood all through his body; nerves firing with electricity—and the sound. The sound, the melody that is Innocence, vibrating, responding to Roy’s touch. Different from Tenacity. He can hear them, guide them, sing them, change them—they are his.

He is a Technomancer, a warrior-eremite, the Crimson King, unhinged by design, a divine freak—and he is weak for them.

_‘Strengthen me with raisins, for I am faint with love.’_

‘Roy…’

He licks between Innocence’s breasts, tastes the gathering sweat, salty, spicy—familiar. Then kisses the pulse point again. He likes feeling its beat, likes to feel the workings of Innocence’s body, alive. He pulls Innocence closer, and Innocence wraps his arms around his neck, and into his shoulder Roy murmurs: ‘I love you.’

He shivers when Innocence strokes the back of his neck, from the bottom up, undoing him just like he was undoing the shirt. Innocence’s fingers find the connector ports on the base of Roy’s skull and press to the skin around them. Sparks run through Roy, adding to the flame of want low in his belly.

‘Love you, too, Roy.’

The words, the meaning of them still make Roy’s head spin a little.

He leans back, looking at Innocence. Innocence is far from delicate, though he is lean, but the oversized shirt makes him look so. The grey light falls onto him from the side, and even its coldness can’t rob Innocence of a healthy golden glow. Winter will take away some of it, replacing it with a certain paleness. He has scars also, and Roy finds some on his back. The contrast of warm skin, scarred in places, the dips and rises of muscles underneath—and the soft fabric of the shirt is intoxicating. Roy glides his hand down Innocence’s back, down until the waistband of Innocence’s jeans rasps against his hand. He looks at Innocence. He hesitates, feeling a little awkward. He knows what he wants to do, but...

Innocence brushes a finger near the ports again, and Roy, half-lidding his eyes from the hot pleasure shooting down his spine, sees a smirk. Then Innocence kisses his bottom lip and murmurs: ‘Want you in me.’

He closes his eyes tight. ‘Yes.’

Then he grabs for Innocence as Innocence pushes back, off of his lap—but panic settles in him when he realises Innocence just wants to take off his jeans. He does it quickly: button, fly—and then he’s already pushing them down, revealing the softness of his belly, and, because he pushes his boxers down with the jeans, too, revealing the dark curls between his thighs.

Innocence is beautiful in his lack of shame, straightening up—naked save for the shirt hanging from his shoulders down nearly to his knees. Roy loves him more than he can put into words, so he shrugs off his jacket, the thick padded leather falling behind him like a pillow, and reaches out to Innocence with his left hand. Innocence takes it without hesitation and climbs on him, over his lap again—and takes Roy’s face in his palms and kisses him, slowly, thoughtfully, like drinking a cupful of the Sitting wine.

Which is to say, drinking Roy’s Fluid, his breath, and Roy has to focus to not let his mind go wandering through Innocence’s body.

‘May I take off your shirt?’

‘Yes.’

Innocence lets go of his face, takes the hem of his shirt, and Roy lifts his arms to help him pull it off. It doesn’t have buttons, it’s more of a long-sleeved t-shirt, worn, too.

Innocence splays his hands on his chest. It’s not the first time, but there is something very intimate about slow exploration of each other, again and again, noting minute changes day in and day out. Innocence’s right hand strokes the circular scar with fanning tendrils under Roy’s left shoulder, while Innocence’s left hand runs over the long jagged line on Roy’s right shoulder.

Roy isn’t ashamed of his scars—he could have removed them if he had been,—but he doesn’t like to be looked at in general. Right now, he leans back, enjoying the pressure of Innocence’s hands. They are warm, Roy knows it objectively, but against his always-heated body, burning from within with too-fast metabolism, Innocence’s hands feel pleasantly cool.

There are metallised scars—a network of his past, all over his body though most of all on his forearms. There are the twin scars under his pectorals, of which he is rather fond. Innocence touches him like he strokes a sheet of paper before filling it with words and images. Something to admire for its own sake—but even more for what it bears. The one across his lower abdomen is mostly hidden under the waistband of his pants, but Innocence twists his wrist to slide his palm underneath.

Roy gasps, pinned. By the touch, cool on the heated flesh, by the raw intimacy of it, like the first time,—a vulnerability he can afford here, with Innocence. It blooms, and he nearly lets his control slip, the world held on a high note—but then he runs his fingers over Innocence’s wrist, to the cuff of the shirt: the supple softness of skin, the rough dry softness of fabric.

He leans forward, just enough to try to not make it more uncomfortable for Innocence—brushes his lips. ‘I love you.’

Innocence smiles, eyes soft. _‘Macushla_.’ He drags his hand up.

Roy misses the contact. He feels greedy, hungry—everything distant except for this moment. There are things he knows, tricks, fancies—the things Innocence likes, the things Tenacity melts from. He knows how to make pleasure last endlessly, how to guide them both to the highest peak and then ease them into oblivion—but now he wants no tricks, only the closeness.

Innocence makes short work of his trousers—Roy had remade them himself, after all, and small buttons are not for him. He takes the opportunity to admire Innocence, glides his hands over Innocence’s thighs, tinted like good paper, with a light blue of blood vessels and marble lines of stretch marks. They are cool to the touch also, and in other days he spent a while kissing these thighs, teasing until Innocence gasped for mercy. But right now, Innocence has colour high on his cheekbones, and impatience giving haste to his movements.

Roy strokes the tender skin on the crease between the thigh and the hip, and over the wiry hairs, and—between Innocence’s folds.

Innocence cries out and sags, curling towards Roy, fingers scraping lines over the leather of Roy’s trousers.

Roy feels... triumphant.

He kisses the top of Innocence’s head as he strokes carefully the wet softness, heated even more than his own skin. The world tilts and then rightens itself again.

‘Roy... You are teasing.’ Innocence sounds out of tune—but he is not, it’s that his tune is slightly different now.

Roy closes his eyes and strokes front to back with the very tip of his middle finger, dipping just—

A sob falls near his ear. ‘Now!’

He doesn’t wish to wait either, but—a thought occurs to him... ‘We don’t have...’

Innocence leans away, and Roy hastily retracts his hand, watching as Innocence reaches for a small bottle and punches on the dispenser head with more force than necessary, the lube spilling across his palm. Innocence returns—then lifts his gaze, and looks away, red spreading further down his neck, his chest. ‘We were...’

‘I know.’

He knows they were, right this morning, here in this armchair, knows that Innocence is still wet from Tenacity’s seed in him, and there is no wonder he carries Tenacity’s scent.

Roy feels them always, as many others: a flash of emotion, physical pain—he knows when Devotion meets with her now-huge family, knows when Dandolo glances at Melvin, knows when Niesha experiences a surge of inspiration; when Viktor’s heart aches from love, when Sean is self-destructive in his bitter arrogance. Roy knows when his lovers make love to each other even in his absence—he feels them keenly, no matter how far he tries to run.

The world is so tiny to him, it fits in his palm. He must remember to keep his fingers curled over it for protection—but not to crush it.

‘I know,’ he repeats, pressing his forehead to Innocence’s; a curl of golden hair tickles his skin. ‘I love you.’ He means, both. Means, loves their love for each other also.

‘I love you, too,’ Innocence whispers, quick, his breath brushing Roy’s lips. Then slicks down Roy’s cock and sinks down on it in a rush.

And stops.

Roy throws his arms around him and tries to breathe.

Innocence is gripping his length, slick and soft and yet firm, heated and alive, tight and easing; his chest rising and falling too fast, rushing, racing, inhales stumbling over exhales, his head on Roy’s shoulder, nails digging into Roy’s shoulder blades—sharp points of focus.

If not for all this, Roy would have shattered.

He is aware he’s saying something, gasping out confessions, over and over, his hands pressing into Innocence so hard he feels the give of ribs—and forces himself to ease out, and—

‘Roy.’ The sigh brushes his neck.

He allows his field to press onto, _into_ Innocence, under his skin, running over his muscles, bones, along his blood vessels.

Innocence snickers. ‘Tingly.’ Then his wet mouth smoothes over Roy’s neck.

Roy runs fingers up Innocence’s spine, hyperaware of the workings of his body. _Their_ bodies—like one. Their hearts beating in sync, their breathing, blood pressure—all synchronised.

He feels... Stretched. Held. He feels everything Innocence feels, mirroring everything his brain processes.

‘Roy...’

Insistent.

Innocence rocks forward—tiny circles with his hips—Roy can feel that it’s all he’s capable of now, just as undone as Roy himself.

Roy slides his hand between them and strokes the pad of his thumb over Innocence’s clit—they gasp together. The electric pleasure fries doubts.

Time stretches and folds. They hold onto each other, sweat mingling, breaths shared, heat unfolding between them. Roy keeps his left hand on the small of Innocence’s back, and has enough control to rub Innocence as his beloved quivers and sighs and moans, squeezing him with thighs and inner walls, hot and wonderful. Innocence comes in a wave, tensing and trembling, nails digging into Roy’s shoulders, with gasps of Roy’s name. His pleasure is enough to make Roy follow, liquid heat coursing through him.

Innocence leans further into him, catching his breath, and Roy, pressing his forehead to Innocence’s temple, is content to hold him like this, kissing over the shell of his ear. He catches the small crystal stud in Innocence’s ear with his lips, and Innocence huffs out a laugh and squeezes his shoulders.

‘Spirits, my knees,’ Innocence groans. It’s soft and a little slurred: he falls into slumber almost immediately after an orgasm, just like Tenacity, cuddly, clingy regardless of the various fluids covering him in and out. Roy loves them both for this also.

‘Just a moment,’ he says. He isn’t sure in what language he does it. Maybe in his first, in arcs rather than words.

He slides his right hand under Innocence’s thigh, keeping his left wrapped over his back, and stands up.

It isn’t... very comfortable, with his pants half-open, but Innocence clings to him and the distances to the bedroom isn’t far. Roy lowers Innocence on the coverlet, the red of it a beautiful backdrop for languid lines of Innocence’s body, the flush here and there on his skin, the golden hair. The wetness between his thighs, among the dark curls.

Roy wants—he always does, in various ways. When he wants like this, it’s not easy to expend his energy.

Innocence curls his fingers around the air—around the invisible thrum of Roy’s field. Roy strokes the side of Innocence’s face—the noble lines of his features, the cheekbone, rounded and not sharp, down the soft cheek, and to his chin.

‘I need to eat something.’

Innocence smiles—sleepy, content. ‘I rode you so hard, didn’t I?’ It’s a small joke: Roy is often hungry.

‘You can ride me even harder later.’

Innocence curls—like cat, and if he’d had a tail, he would have curled it around himself. Roy picks a quilt from a stand near the bed, and spreads it over Innocence. Unlike his lovers, Roy is more energised by lovemaking than the other way around.

He pads quietly to the bathroom. He’s left the jacket in the armchair and the undershirt is there also, but he needs to take off everything else, so he does. There are marks on his trousers: scratches and glistening wetness. Better than many other marks they had to endure at one point or another. He takes a quick shower, not allowing himself to linger, the mirror, as usual, covered.

He realises he can’t put his leathers back on—and he shouldn’t. He’s home. Torn, his mind still in the run mode, even with Innocence’s kisses and touch lingering on his body, he forces himself to focus on the latter and pads into the bedroom with a big towel wrapped around himself. He slides open the door of the wardrobe, takes jeans from his shelf, and boxers. Then, putting them on (Innocence breathing evenly in restful sleep), Roy goes to the study and picks the chequered shirt that has fallen off of Innocence some time in their lovemaking. He holds it to his chest, stroking the soft fabric, then puts it on. He doesn’t bother with buttons. He picks the rest of discarded clothes, his own and Innocence’s, throws them into the laundry basket on the way to the kitchen. Then fills the kettle, finds tea—still the one with bergamot from the batch he had bought before he ran in a haste—and he’s halfway through building a sandwich when he hears a key turn in the lock.

Temperance is the first to turn right into the kitchen and push his muzzle to Roy’s side—and then Roy and Tenacity are looking at each other.

Tenacity’s hair is grown out also—they’ve been between hunts for a while now—and it lies in wonderful dark waves. Roy closes his fists, trying to hold back from reaching out and carding his fingers through it.

Tenacity swallows, throat working audibly. ‘Hello.’

Temperance whines, and Roy strokes his head—but he’s looking at Tenacity still. ‘Hello. Tea? And I have pickles from Zach.’

Tenacity’s gaze, Roy, notices, takes in the shirt and maybe—keen eyes of a head-hunter—the scratches that sting over his shoulders, close to his neck.

‘Yes. Tea would be good.’

And then they move forward, toward each other, and embrace.

Roy is home.


End file.
